The Dective's Loss
by Ankha
Summary: A new crime lord is on the rise and he's taken out Holme's right-hand man....


Hi! I'm Ankha. *bows to everyone* This is my second Sherlock Holmes story, I haven't posted the first. (It needs to be re-written)

  
  


On with the story! And remember: Peace, Love, and be a Marauder!

Kit: Wrong story idget.

Ankha: Oh, I mean: Peace, Love, and don't be a crimnal!

Kit: Smooth, real smooth.

  
  
  
  


Disclaimer: I never have and never will own Sherlock Holmes.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The Detectives Friend

  
  
  
  
  
  


"It's my turn, I fear, to take this accursed pen and give an explanation to what has occurred. Usually I allow Watson to handle this but..." Holmes sighed in despair and sat the journal aside. He raised his head, his eyes full of anguish as he stared at his late friend's chair. He allowed a single tear of sorrow to slip down his cheek, not ashamed of its passage. 'No I will not take him for dead, not yet.' he thought, angrily wiping the tear away. Jumping to his feet, he paced in an agitated fashion around the small, cramped sitting room. He hadn't left the room much in the last two days, ever since that fateful day when the package had arrived.

(Flashback: Two Days Earlier)

"Mr. Holmes, package for you." Mrs. Hudson called through the closed door. 

"Place it on the mantle Mrs. Hudson." Holmes ordered, not taking his eyes off his chemistry work. The door creaked open and the small, aged woman slid in. Walking over to the mantle, she stared at it in disgust. 

"Mr. Holmes when are you going to tidy this room to give it some semblance of order?" the white-haired woman scolded.

"When you place the package on the mantle you may leave Mrs. Hudson." he commented. Mrs. Hudson sighed and placed the grubby little parcel on the crowded mantle. 

"Really, I don't understand how a gentlemen like Dr. Watson can live in the same house as you." she muttered as she left the room. 

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." he said, swirling the contents of the test tube he was holding. Several hours passed without his knowledge, so far away was his mind. The insignificant little parcel was all but forgotten, sitting alone, separated from everything else on the mantle. 

Holmes smiled in satisfaction as he sat in his favorite chair. His experiment had been a success and soon Albers would be in prison. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. 

"Come in," he answered, lighting his pipe. The ever-lean Inspector Lestrade strolled into the sitting room. 

"Ah Lestrade! I was just about to send you a telegram but here you are in the flesh! Sit down man for something is troubling you." Lestrade obeyed, twisting his bowler hat around in his hands.

"Yes Mr. Holmes something is troubling me, that is why I came to you. Though I hardly expected to find you in such high spirts." he added the last bit hesitantly, twisting his hat more furiously. Holmes raised an eyebrow at the inspector's strange behavior.

"Why should I not be? My case has just been solved and a guilty man will soon be on his way to the gallows." he inquired. 

"The letter said you would have received it by now." Lestrade muttered to himself. 

"What letter? Spit it out man, you speak in riddles!" Holmes demanded, irritation creeping into his voice.

"Holmes, this morning we received a letter down at Scotland Yard, it was about Watson." Holmes was all ears in an instant.

"What about Watson?"

"The letter stated that Watson had been missing for several days from the inn he was residing at. It also said that you, Mr. Holmes, would be receiving a package that would explain everything. Naturally we were concerned for his safety, so I came to you as fast as the cabby could drive his horse." Holmes sprang from his chair and grabbed the grubby package. After ripping it open and letting the paper fall to the floor, he opened the letter attached to the wooden box. It read:

  
  


Dear Esteemed Detective,

Well, well Mr. Holmes we meet again or we will soon. You ruined my life, now it's time for me to return the favor. By taking away the only real friend you have in the world. Yes, I'm referring to Watson. He has been my guest until very recently. Open the box, the explanation waits there.

  
  


Holmes read the letter through a second time before picking up the box. It was crude in design, roughly cut from a dark block of wood. Carefully he undid the latch and opened it. The contents sent a chill to the very core of his being. A human heart lay in the middle of a plush, purple pillow. Around the heart was a gold fob chain and on that was a frighteningly familiar pocket watch. With trembling hands he gently lifted the watch out and clicked it open.

His knees buckled beneath him and he fell back into his chair. On the inside was inscribed, "John H. Watson".

"God in Heaven above." Lestrade whispered.

"Holmes there's another letter!" he cried, pointing to the lid. There, tucked away in a small compartment, inside the lid, was indeed another letter. By now Holmes's hands were shaking so badly that he almost tore the letter as he extracted it. It read:

  
  


Dear Devastated Detective,

  
  


Well if you haven't deduced it yet, which I believe you have, Watson is dead. He protested most profusely when we told him what we were going to do. Strange, he didn't protest when we took his heart, but then corpses can't protest very well. This is a warning to you Holmes, stay out of my business. Try and interfere and you may receive another heart. I haven't paid Mycroft a visit yet; I'll have to drop in on him.

  
  


Joseph Collingsworth 

  
  


Holmes sat for several minutes breathing heavily, trying to collect himself. 'Watson cannot be dead. He....he just cannot be.' He chanted this over and over in his mind, trying to make himself believe. Lestrade tentively placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Holmes I'm....I'm sorry. I wish there had been something we could have done to prevent this." he offered in consolation. Holmes shrugged off his hand and sprang toward his chemistry set, where he began working furiously. Lestrade grabbed his hat and headed toward the door.

"Good luck Mr. Holmes." he whispered as he left. Holmes gave him no acknowledgment in return; he continued to work to prove that his friend was alive.

(Present)

Holmes placed his head in his hands. Two solid days of testing had nothing except the heart was that of human, but if it belonged to Watson or not, he could not tell. This horrible feeling that it was, however, would not leave. He had obeyed Collingsworth's wishes; he had not interfered with his business. He could see it, even if the police could not, a new crime lord was rising, slowly taking over the dark underbelly of London. Holmes knew that this man would rival Moriarty in every aspect. One aspect of Collingsworth's character, however, separated them like two repelling magnets. Collingsworth was exceedingly more ruthless than Moriarty. Without interfering in any way he had followed all the movements of the new crime lord. His actions were beginning to give light to a much larger scheme, though Holmes knew not what that was, yet. For now all that could be done was to sit back and let the play unfold. Shouts and the scampering of small feet could be heard outside, interrupting his thoughts. A few seconds later Wiggins burst through the door: waving a letter in the air.

"Mr. 'Olmes! I got something for ya!" The young street Arab scooted around the furniture with ease coming to stand in front of Holmes, letter outstretched. 

"Thomas gave me it to me sir! Told me to run as fast as my lil' legs could carry me; and I did sir! It must be important," he gushed quickly in between breaths. Holmes snatched the letter and tore it open, scanning the contents. He smiled grimly, the time had come.

"Good work Wiggins. Take this and keep as sharp eye out." Holmes handed him a pound note and tapped the side of his nose. Wiggins grinned and stuffed the note in his pocket.

"I'll keep a sharp eye and nose out Mr. 'Olmes!" He saluted Holmes and scampered out the door. Holmes was left alone to his thoughts once more. It looked like the stage was set and the actors were ready.

  
  


Holmes flattened his back to the alley wall, immersing himself in darkness. He had traveled through all the dark halls and back ways he knew to get here, Collingsworth's headquarters. It was now or never for if he did not take Collingsworth down tonight all would be lost. Spotting a window ahead, he crept closer. Peering over the top of the sill he saw what resembled an office. A tall, broad-shouldered, blonde man paced back and forth in front of the desk. Reaching up, Holmes raised the window slightly and placed his ear to it.

"Everything is going according to plan boss, relax," a dark, rough man said from his chair.

"Are all the men in their positions?" the blonde ground out, increasing the speed of his pacing.

"Yes sir, everyone is on standby, waiting for your command," the other answered.

"No sign of Holmes?" the blonde asked. The dark man shook his head.

"None Mr. Collingsworth." Mr. Collingsworth smiled grimly at this bit of information. 

"Good. We strike Scotland Yard within the hour, dismissed." The dark man gave a salute and left, leaving Collingsworth alone. As silently as possible Holmes slide the window the rest of the way up and slipped into the room. When his foot touched the floor the boards creaked. Collingsworth spun around and found himself staring down the business end of Holmes's revolver. Collingsworth cracked a grin.

"Well, well Mr. Holmes, you finally arrived. I must admit that I had my doubts, it being so late in the game," the blonde proclaimed. Holmes's eyes narrowed.

"I must admit regret to letting you go this far, but I believe that every criminal sets his own trap, digs his own grave. All I had to do was allow it." Collingsworth's face flushed crimson from anger.

"You shouldn't have this time Holmes, there's no stopping me now! My troops are ready to lay siege to Scotland Yard and they don't have a prayer. All I have to do is give the word," he said smugly. Holmes smiled. 

"Yes all you have to do is give the word and Scotland Yard will come under attack. But it will be very hard for you to give the word if you're dead." Holmes chocked the revolver and leveled it on Collingsworth's heart.

"Holmes no," a weak voice from the side croaked. Holmes whipped around and stared at the ghostly pale face of his supposedly late friend. Watson was leaning heavily against a doorway, almost clutching it for support. Seeing that Holmes was distracted, Collingsworth lunged toward the gun, making a grab for it. Holmes sidestepped him and brought the butt of his revolver over the blonde man's head. Holmes stared at him for a minute before turning back to the man in the doorway. He approached him cautiously.

"Watson?" he asked, hardly believing. Watson's mouth twisted into a smile and he stumbled forward. Holmes caught him just before he fell to the floor.

"Holmes he's gone," Watson whispered, pointing behind Holmes. Indeed, Collingsworth was gone. A blood trail to the window told in which direction he had fled. 

"Don't worry Watson, he won't get far." 

  
  


Back at Baker Street Watson explained what happened. 

"Collingsworth was a patient of mine while I was in the war. He owed me a debt for saving his life, that's why he did not kill me. If Collingsworth is anything he is always one to repay his debts."

"What did he do to you after he had you abducted?" Holmes questioned as they settled down in front of the fire.

"He told me his plans and asked me to join him. Naturally I refused." This was the end of another case for Sherlock Holmes. Collingsworth's men had been apprehended and put in prison. All in all, a very satisfying ending, except for one thing. Collingsworth was never found. 

  
  
  
  


A/N: Hmmmmm....what do you think, please review and tell me.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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